


Brotherhood is a Two-Way Street

by Brate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, Brotherhood, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes focusing on the relationship between the Winchester brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood is a Two-Way Street

Dean eyed his prey. 

He stalked around the corner, slowly and carefully. He was just about to pounce…

When Sammy turned, saw him, and sprinted across the yard. 

"Safe!" Sammy announced as he touched the Impala. The car was always safe—always their home base. If they'd been old enough to realize, it might've been symbolic. At that moment, it was just fun.

Dean strolled up. "You're only allowed to touch it for ten seconds."

"I know," Sam shot back, finger skimming the black-painted metal surface as he moved around the vehicle, hastily trying to come up with a plan to elude his pursuer. 

With a glance at his brother, Sammy made a dash across the street, heading for the neighbor's yard so he could get lost in their thick bushes. So intent on his getaway, Sammy didn't notice the car speeding down the road.

It didn't escape Dean's ever-watchful eyes. He put on a burst of speed and tackled Sammy out of the way, twisting them around so Dean landed on the bottom. He slammed down hard on the grass, wind knocked out of him for a moment.

Sammy rolled off, wide eyes tracking the disappearing car, before swinging around to Dean. 

Dean's gut clenched; he would do anything to take away that look of terror. He punched Sammy in the shoulder. "You're it," he smirked, and took off running.

Sammy's protest turned into a shriek of laughter as he chased after his brother. His shouted, "I'm gonna get you," showed he had already forgotten the incident. 

That was fine with Dean. It was Dean's job to watch out for Sammy—it was Sammy's job to be a kid.

****

"Come here, kiddo." Dean put his arm around his brother's shoulder and pulled him close.

"Just 'cause Emily won't talk to you 'til your mustache grows in, don't expect me to put out." 

"Oh yeah?"

Sam giggled as Dean grabbed him and launched an aggressive tickling attack. They rolled around for a few minutes, shrieks of laughter echoing, before slumping onto their backs, staring up at the dark sky. 

Dean flopped over onto his stomach and dug his hands in the short grass of the baseball diamond. He had pitched his first winning game earlier that day while Sam had cheered him on, screaming himself hoarse. Neither boy seemed to want the feeling to fade. 

Then, once they got home, Dad had announced they were moving. Without a word, Dean had turned and stalked out of the house, Sam trailing behind.

"Do you think Dad'll look for us here?"

Dean shrugged. He had told his father about the game, but doubted he remembered.

"Can we stay for a while?" Sam whispered softly.

Dean breathed deep, dragging the scent of freshly cut grass into his lungs. He knew Dad would be pissed, but right now he didn't care. "Sure, Sammy. We can stay as long as you want."

****

It was after eleven when the front door of their rental house slammed.

Sam looked up from doing his homework at the kitchen table as Dean strode past, opened the fridge, brought out the milk, and started to chug it straight from the carton. Sam curled a disgusted lip. "What are you doing home so late?"

"Aw." Dean shoved the carton back in the fridge and reached out a hand to ruffle Sam's hair. "Were you worried about me?"

Sam smacked Dean's hand away. "No, you turd, you just said you'd be back from the movie about ten."

"Never got to the movie," Dean said, sitting across from Sam. "Mandy had to stay home and babysit her kid sister. So I volunteered to help her."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you were a big help."

"Hey, I'm used to watching over whiny brats." Dean laughed as Sam flicked him off with one hand, continuing to write with the other.

"Turned out to be quite the exciting night," Dean continued.

Sam looked up. "And what exciting thing did you do?"

"The three of us played Candy Land."

Throwing his head back, Sam cackled with delight. "Did you make it over the gumdrop mountain?"

"In a manner of speaking. I promised Mandy I'd play it with them if she promised to play it with me after the kid went to bed."

"Why on earth would you want to play it again?" Sam forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Dude, the second time it was _strip_ Candy Land."

Sam groaned and buried his head in his arms. 

"I lost…then I won." Dean laughed lewdly.

Sam groaned again, wishing he'd been smart enough to cover his ears. That image might be stuck in his brain for life.

****

By the time Sam got out of the shower, Dean had returned, parked himself on the bed, and surrounded himself with pink- and red-wrapped candy.

"What is all this?" Sam asked.

"Heaven," Dean mumbled through a mouth full of chocolate. "Valentine's Day was last week, so all of this was seventy-five percent off. Can you believe it?"

Sam's indulgent smile froze on his face. The date had passed and he hadn't even noticed. It'd only been three months since her death, and he had forgotten. "Um," Sam said, ducking his head and pulling on his jacket. "I need to go…out."

Dean must've heard the tremor in his voice. His gaze shot to Sam. "You okay?"

Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I just— Um, okay. I'll be back." Then he practically ran out the door. Striding to the far corner of the parking lot, he tilted his head back to look up at the stars and willed his eyes to stay dry. _Goddammit_. Every time he thought it was getting better, another memory from out of the blue sent him spiraling downward.

Valentine's Day. The day he had planned to ask Jess to marry him. The ring he had painstakingly picked out was supposed to be on her finger. Instead, she was dead. 

Loop after loop of the parking lot did little to alleviate the heaviness in his chest, so Sam took off down the road. The repetitive rhythm to his steps calmed his internal chaos, and Sam knew he had to go back to the room before Dean got too worried. He spun and returned to the motel.

Hand on the doorknob, Sam hesitated, not wanting to answer the questions he knew would come. He shook his head, steeling himself, and opened the door…to find it absent of Dean, as well as chocolate, candy, nor any sign it had ever been there.

Sam couldn't stop his lips from curving slightly. He was certain Dean had no idea why Sam had freaked out and taken off, but he did what he always did in those situations: tried to fix it. 

Shrugging out of his jacket, Sam turned at the sound of the door opening. 

Dean stalled in the doorway, eyes surveying the room before landing on Sam and giving a self-conscious grin. He held up his hands, showing the sodas and chip bags they held. "Hungry?"

Sam took it for the offering it was. "Starving," he said.

Dean handed over half the snacks then slapped Sam's arm as he walked past him, and jumped backward onto his bed, picking up the remote and flipping on the TV. 

Apparently, Dean was willing to ignore whatever had set Sam off. Sam felt another burst of affection for his brother. Normally one to talk things out, he just couldn't break through the lump in his throat. 

But he could shove Dean over and soak up the comfort of his brother.

****

"No. No way."

"Seriously, Dean, they gave it to us, don't be rude."

"Like I give a rat's ass if they think I'm rude."

"You said you were hungry."

"Not that hungry."

"Starving, you said."

"I lied."

"You only had coffee for breakfast, and you skipped lunch."

"I can wait."

"It's delicious."

"There's no way I'm eating hummus, whatever that is. It smells like puke."

"Pureed chickpeas." Sam looked over when he could sense Dean staring at him. "What?"

"Chickpeas?! What the hell are those?"

"Garbanzo beans," Sam offered instead.

"You say that like it's a selling point," Dean scoffed. "If you want to catch my interest, tell me it's made outta cheeseburgers."

"You would eat a pureed burger?"

"A hell of a lot faster than I would a freakin' mushed bean."

"Whatever. I'm eating it."

"Go ahead. But if you spill any of that shit in my car, there's gonna be a hummus-cide."

****

Dean took his eyes off the television over the bar and looked over his shoulder at his brother. He dropped his head and sighed.

Sam had made a little nest for himself in the far corner, face stuck in the laptop, surrounded by notepapers, and barely looking up to eat the food or drink Dean had sent over to him. 

Earlier there had been a girl who'd had her eye on Sam, but his brother had completely failed to notice—no surprise. Dean had turned away a few young ladies himself. Although he generally wouldn't mind the diversion, tonight wasn't supposed to be about him.

Sam was running on fumes, and was about to crash and burn. Pushing himself too hard to find out what killed Jess, and searching nonstop for their father. Dean was nearly as desperate as Sam, but knew it wouldn't be quick or easy. Their father was too good at going to ground; if John didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. The search would be a marathon, not a sprint. They both needed downtime if they were going to make it through the long run.

Dean took a final slug of beer, set the bottle down, then walked over to the corner. He pulled a chair around to straddle. "Come over and watch the game with me."

Sam's eyes flicked to the TV before shooting back to his computer. "Why? You don't even care who wins."

Dean's hand went to his heart, and he adopted a hurt tone. "Dude, I'm ashamed of you. It's the Cubs—not cheering for them is un-American."

Sam snorted and shook his head, refocusing on his work. 

Dean guessed his brother intended to ignore him, as if he'd let that happen. It was for the kid's own good, really. "Sam." Pause. "Sam." A longer pause. He drew a deep breath. " _Saaammmy_ ," he sing-songed loudly. 

"What do you want, Dean?" Sam snapped. "I came out with you like you asked." 

"No, I asked you to come out and have fun, not continue being a geek."

Sam started shuffling through a pile of papers. "I think I'm onto something."

It killed Dean not to look, not to see if Sam had indeed found a clue that would lead them to Dad. But he had a more important job at the moment. Dean placed his hands over Sam's to still them. "Whatever it is will be there in the morning."

Sam just shook his head.

"Sam," Dean's soft voice broke through the bar noise. "Come on."

Sam finally looked up, eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled. 

It was a struggle not to laugh. Frustrated Sam was as scary as a chipmunk. Dean stared down his brother.

"Okay, I give up." Sam closed the laptop, collected the papers, and shoved everything into his satchel. "Let's get this over with."

"Hell, yeah." Dean stood and stepped back so Sam could get out. "I need to get a couple more beers into me before the seventh inning stretch. They got some football player to lead the crowd in song. And you know those guys can't carry a tune if they had a bucket." 

Sam couldn't hold back the threatening grin. "A few more shots and we might be singing along."

"That's my boy!" Dean crowed. He clapped Sam on the shoulder and followed him over to the bar, smiling widely.

Even if he could only give his brother a short reprieve, to Dean, it was worth the effort.

****

"Sam."

"Don't say a word."

"Sam."

"Not one fucking word."

"I—"

"You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"But—"

"Shut up!"

Dean shut up. Not because Sam asked him, though. Mostly not. But he wasn't feeling guilty. He sighed, leaned back against the headboard, and looked over at his brother. Dean would stick his tongue out, but it wasn't as though Sam would see him, since half his face was covered in an ice-filled towel. 

Despite what Sam might think, it hadn't been Dean's intention to start a brawl. He had simply been trying to explain to his opponent that he had lost the pool game and owed Dean three hundred dollars. Apparently his mark—er, _adversary_ —thought differently and wanted to talk it over using his fists instead of his mouth. 

Really it was Sam's own fault for jumping in—Dean had totally had it handled. Mostly. Probably. Anyway, it was four to one, and Dean had triumphed over those odds before. He could've again. And he had been holding his own, while trying to keep an eye on Sam, who was doing okay, too. Until that jackass blind-sided Sammy with a beer bottle.

That's when the shit really hit the fan. Or more like that's when Dean hit that shithead. Because no one messed with his baby brother. 

Except himself, of course.

"Sammy…"

"Don't make me kill you, Dean."

What an ungrateful bitch.

****

Sitting on the couch in their room, Sam adjusted the foot propped on a pillow at one end. His ankle was severely sprained, abhorring any and all weight placed on it. The injury had been his own fault, zigging when he should've zagged. But Dean—the world's biggest martyr—had blamed himself for the mishap. As self-imposed punishment, he had been waiting on Sam hand and foot since he'd dragged his brother back to the motel the night before.

Sam had gone along with it at first, sending his brother on weird or frivolous errands in retaliation for all the humiliation Dean had heaped on him over the years. But Dean completed them without comment or complaint, except to ask if Sam needed anything else. He'd even adopted a guilty, kicked-puppy expression every time he looked at Sam.

That wasn't fun—it was serious. Sam needed to snap Dean out of it. 

For the last hour, Sam had been asking Dean to do the stupidest and most trivial shit he could think of to try to break his brother out of his funk. Sam had even had him separate the green and the blue M&Ms in the full-size bag because the others "didn't taste as good." Dean had sat on the bed for almost twenty minutes dividing the candies before handing them over with a flourish and a smile.

"Hey, Dean, could you get me…no, never mind."

Dean muted the TV. "What do you need?"

"Oh, nothing. I just realized I'd left my good pen over there." Sam pointed at the table just out of his reach.

Dean's eye slid to the pen in Sam's hand, but didn't remark on it. He simply got off the bed, walked over, and fetched the other pen, handing it across the two feet of space to Sam.

"Thanks."

"Anything else?" Dean asked, standing over him.

Sam relaxed his clenched jaw. "No, that's it; I'm fine."

Dean nodded, gave Sam a once over, then retreated, flicking the TV's sound back on. 

Ducking so his eyes were beneath his bangs, Sam scanned the room for ideas. When his gaze reached the bathroom door, he smiled.

"Hey, Dean?"

His brother's head snapped up instantly. "You need something?"

"Yeah, could you help me to the bathroom?"

Dean frowned, puzzled for a moment, probably wondering why Sam suddenly needed assistance with something he'd been fine with previously, but merely said, "Yeah, sure."

Sam put an arm around Dean's shoulder as they hobbled, leaning a bit more than necessary. When they made it to the bathroom door, Sam steadied himself on one foot with a hand on the upper jamb. 

Dean took a step back. "You good?" he asked.

"Well, actually…"

"What?" Dean held out a hand, moving forward again.

Sam nearly had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He looked straight into Dean's eyes, and asked, deadpan, "Would you mind waiting so you can wipe my ass?"

It was a testament to how deeply Dean was wrapped up in his guilt and self-recrimination, that it took him a full ten seconds to react. 

Finally, Dean let out a growled laugh. "Oh, fuck you." He gave Sam a half-hearted shove.

"No, really, I might miss a spot. I don't want any chafing."

"Screw you, man. You're on your own." Dean crossed to the outside door. "I'm going to get something to eat." 

Before Sam could even open his mouth to ask, Dean announced, "I'm not bringing you back anything, either." He nodded at the table. "You can eat the crappy-colored M&Ms."

As soon as Dean left the room, Sam hopped back to the couch and carefully lowered himself down. He lifted his leg, resting his ankle on the pillow, and leaned back with a smile. Hopefully when Dean returned, he'd be back to normal. 

As normal as he ever got, anyway.


End file.
